


On Touching  - Adaptation

by JLVE



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 11:31:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7101469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JLVE/pseuds/JLVE
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>CissaMione. After the war. Not Epilogue compliant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Touching  - Adaptation

It was in the darker hours of the night that Narcissa woke up. Adaption turned out to be a strange, but nevertheless familiar phenomenon. It had been her path, her only card to play within her life. Being the loyal daughter adapting to the whimsical moods of her father, the dutiful wife fitting herself into the narrow borders of a loveless marriage, the silent stand-bye woman to the many death-eaters who had walked her house, brought in by that very same husband. It was how she survived the war, how she managed to safe her son. How she had lost two sisters, and her dignity and warmth.

But the adaptation that woke her now, was of a different kind. A kind that settled as much within in her as the darker version had. However, this was an adaptation that she embraced. The adaptation that was a reiteration of care, something Narcissa had not been good at during the last two decades. The adaptation that made you wake up because the one you loved was lying awake next to you. As stiff as a wooden plank, eyes firmly shut, muscles of her hands clamped into fists. Hermione did not toss and turn, afraid to wake Narcissa. Afraid to take up space, or bother someone with her pain. Narcissa was no longer surprised how deep Hermione’s reflex had rooted within the woman. It was something that could only be healed slowly, one comforting gesture after the other.

First Narcissa glided her hand across Hermione’s shoulders. Gently rubbing them. Sometimes it helped, the mere touch of someone familiar, but Hermione didn’t react apart from frowning her already closed eyes so Narcissa let her hand drift unto Hermione’s lower back, ready to pull her hands away to give Hermione room to fight while she still stayed close enough to provide physical and mental support if needed. But the moment her fingers left the woman’s skin Hermione made a strangled noise and tried to somewhat jerky to lean into the touch. Her body begging for the comfort even though her mind was too far into the battle to ask. Narcissa knew Hermione had one of her bad nights, far worse than since they had started sleeping together regularly.

The war had been over for five years now. They had started seeing each other almost one and a half ago. First, they just bumped into each other at common occasions such as the ministry’s Christmas drinks, or war memorial day that they both choose to spend at Hogwarts. Their paths kept on crossing and their talks were noncommittal, laden with the burden of tragedies that piled up far beyond their own timeline. Narcissa was aware of her position of outcast, a position she realized she fully deserved. Where she walked people stopped their conversations, where she did her groceries people sold her sour milk. She refused to associate with the little aristocratic community that was left, the old ideals had meant nothing but emptiness and harm to her, and she’d rather drink sour milk the rest of her life then to let herself be subjected to the prejudices of the past.

So when she got invited to Mr. Potters wedding almost two years ago she was completely surprised. A matter of politeness she thought, but her upbringings traces were too grounded in her to decline the invitation. She would join the ceremony, she decided, bring a proper gift and then silently make her way home. Fulfilling her duty, without bothering the people who would not want her there.

But the evening turned differently. Ms. Weasley, the bride, had welcomed her warmly, told her she and her son had become friends after the war while working at the ministry – a position Draco had took up instead of finishing his last year of Hogwarts. That way he could take his Newts during evening school. Apparently the Weasley girl had done the same. Too delighted to learn a little bit more about her son’s new life and the rare feeling of happiness that was in the air she decided to stay until the party.

The ceremony had been lovely.  Harry and Ginny had been lovely. The boy who live turned into the boy who loved his wife. His man of honor the proud brother, the bride’s maid of honor the caring girl who sometimes got called brightest witch of her age. But her brightness was different than that of the groom or the best man. It carried the lines of well hidden grief, and of a tiredness deeper embedded than the young men seemed to carry. Nevertheless the woman hugged the lucky pair and Mr. Weasley with smiles and care. She seemed to be genuinely happy for them. Narcissa observed the red haired young man with Ms. Granger from her position at the edge of the gazebo. They were no longer a pair - according to the daily prophet, which her son had confirmed- but hadn’t parted at bad terms so it seemed. Narcissa’s gaze turned to her son, who also gave his best wishes to the pair together with the girl he just started seeing. Astoria was a lovely woman and Draco had looked very happy when introducing her. Narcissa was far more relieved than she expected by seeing her son succeeding in making amends with the light side. She truly whished he would do well.

Something she had not managed to do. Mending fences. Observing the different guests Narcissa once again realized how lonely she was, and how reclused she lived. Years of loneliness trained you into understanding the solace. However, the sharp contrast with the sweet air of spring mixing with the sounds of joy and cordiality with which people greeted and talked to each other made her understand that loneliness was indeed her best known companion. But this was her place now, at the edge of the community. Close enough to look, never to be part of.

Movement of someone beside made her interrupt her thoughts. A young woman stood next to her, a meter away in a dark blue gown. 

‘Do you mind if I join you, Ms. Black.’ It was a neutral question but Narcissa knew the girl had every reason to not stand with her. So if she chose to do so Narcissa would gracefully accept the company. ‘It would be my pleasure Ms. Granger.’

They stood silently, watching the crowd dance, the cheering of voices that got more braze the further the night got. Filius Flitwick turned out to be a rather enthusiastic dancer, dragging the newly wed bride all over the dancefloor until Arthur took over, slowly waltzing with his daughter.

Narcissa thought it was a nice display, and wanted to congratulate Ms. Granger with her friends happiness but when she turned her head the woman had tears straining down her face. Silently Ms. Granger cried while her eyes were fixed on Ms. Weasley (Ms. Potter now) and her father. Narcissa did not comment. She just stood next to her, casting cold glazes to everyone who glanced at the woman next to her. She knew she was not the person to comfort Ms. Granger, but if she needed the solitary to cry for any reason whatsoever, Narcissa could provide her the privacy.

After the dance modern music took over and the dancefloor was now completely crowded. She heard Ms. Granger take a deep breath, and figured the woman would join the festivities now that she had recollected herself again. But against her expectations the woman began to talk.

‘It is a muggle tradition.’ Silence. ‘The father dances the first dance with the bride.’

Narcissa turned her head to look at the woman.

‘I am happy for them, I truly am. It is just, when I see Arthur… I send my parents off. To Australia.’

It was all that needed to be said. Narcissa understood that this drastic measure hadn’t sufficed. Voldemort’s followers had, one way or another, found them.

‘I am sorry.’ She said.

Hermione nodded. ‘I need to go back. Harry can’t dance to save his life, and someone has to lead him along the dancefloor.’ A small smile appeared on the woman’s face. ‘Goodnight Ms. Black.’

‘Goodnight Ms. Granger’. With a single nod the brown haired witch turned around, off to the music. Narcissa decided it was a good moment to make her way home, and silently apparated away.

Three weeks later there was a small envelope lying on her desk. An equally small mottled brown-white owl was standing next to it. Looking at her intensely with large golden eyes. Smiling she fed the pretty owl and curiously opened the letter.

_Dear Ms. Black,_

_My apologies for approaching you rather unexpectedly._  
Your son spoke the other day on your love for gardens. Next Friday at noon a small opening of a courtyard will be held near Bermondsey along with a lecture on magical gardening during the Victorian age. I was wondering if you would, perhaps, be amendable to join me.    
  
Kind regards,

_Hermione Granger_

Surprised, but ambivalent about the offer she thought about what to write back. She understood the invitation was send to her perhaps partly because the younger woman had no friends who shared her interest in gardens, and partly because living a life as someone who was known by so many proved to be so much easier when appearing at events accompanied. People were less likely to disturb a conversation between two people then to approach when being without friends or acquaintances. But the reason as to why Ms. Granger had invited her, other than her love for nature, left her guessing. They were hardly on friendly terms due to Narcissa’s position during the war, and other then the slight crossing of their social circles they could barely be called acquaintances. It was only one moment at Mr. Potters wedding that could be interpreted as something shared.

Still, Narcissa knew the situation was perhaps unaccustomed for, but also a rare display of reaching out. Whatever reasoning Ms. Granger had, she would accept the invitation and join the young woman. Sealing her answer and sending the owl away with a last ‘good boy’, she hoped for the better.

That Friday their meeting started off somewhat uncomfortable. Neither witch knew quite what to say, but Narcissa was pleased to notice the younger woman would rather stay silent then to engage in meaningless conversation. It was a quiet event, with a varied public that seemed to be bounded by their interest in plants and trees, and after an hour of walking around and sharing little snippets of information both intellectually and tiptoeing around personally, Narcissa noticed she had somehow relaxed and was engaging in a highly satisfactory conversation with Hermione on the different techniques to grow wisteria. Hermione seemed to have calmed down too, and Narcissa was glad the witch had approached her. It had been a long time ago when she had such an interesting conversation in the bright spring sun – if ever. So when they said goodbye, later that afternoon, Narcissa couldn’t keep the warmth out of her voice. ‘Thank you Hermione, for letting me accompany you. I have enjoyed it.’

‘It was my pleasure Narcissa.’ The woman smiled at her. Narcissa considered asking whether they could perhaps do this sometime more, but chastised herself for thinking of a continuation. It was not her place. She was about to turn around with a greeting when Hermione spoke again.

‘Would it be presumptuous to ask you again, sometime?’ She looked at Narcissa questioningly.

‘That’d be… most lovely.’ They both smiled.

‘Well, then. Goodbye Narcissa.’

‘Goodbye Hermione. Have a good day.’

Later that evening, reading next to the firestone Narcissa noticed her smile had stayed all evening.

But even though their encounter had been sealed with a request for more on both sides, Narcissa felt like a burden to Hermione, and questioned her desire to see the younger witch. She was lonely, with an ex-husband in prison and a son who needed to spread his wings in order to build up a life out of the shadow of his heritage. She knew that clamping onto the person who was the first to bring out a smile from the ice queen after many years of winter was not her place. She had to bear her own scars and guilt. And precisely because the person was being Hermione, Former golden trio girl, it made the situation even more inappropriate. Her need for friendship with a girl her son’s age was preposterous. But Hermione was a woman now, she thought the next meeting, aged by experience rather than time. And the brown-haired woman kept on inviting her to join to museums, tea, lunches, even an evening to the opera. Narcissa had afterwards gone to the muggle area were the library was located –one of her safe spaces she had found after the war- hesitantly asked the librarian if they had information on Les pêcheurs de perles and found out –rather awkwardly- that there were devices such as compact disc players. When Draco had come by the Sunday after to join for dinner he had been flabbergasted to see she had purchased one and hummed along with the music while preparing dinner. He had been almost as delighted with the development as she was. With glassy eyes he had told her he was proud of her. Warmth had spread through her whole body and she had felt a gratefulness to Hermione for no only offering her friendship, but as well giving her an opportunity to connect in new ways to her son.

Perhaps this was why she realized so very late that her feelings of gratitude and delight were founded in something much more profound. It was the glossing of her full lips, the slight speeding of her heartbeat when she looked at the younger woman. The frequency of thoughts spend on trying to understand the intelligent witch. She had all taken it for granted, without analyzing what kind of masquerade she was having with herself.  Many years without feeling any desire left her inexperienced in recognizing signs of attraction.

Yet when she became aware, she immediately decided that she wouldn’t act on her feelings. Exploring her feelings and pursuing the younger woman were two vastly different things. And she had no intentions on following her desire. It was clear to her that she had to adapt, settle, for the mere platonic relationship that they had. Not only had Hermione not shown any interest, she had also many young, intelligent, carefree suitors who were undamaged by multiple wizard wars and certainly hadn’t chosen the wrong paths for over decades. Hermione didn’t speak much about the offers she got, but Narcissa knew there were many. She noticed the young men skirting around the witch when they were together. Hermione, on the other hand, either ignored them or was completely unaware. When Narcissa asked her about it during a walk in a nearby forest Hermione stayed silent for a long time while observing Narcissa critically. ‘Silence and talking are often positioned as opposites, unable to meet each other. Yet they are born from the same entity, the message, only developed into a different path of conveying’ She answered rather cryptically.

It was only after Hermione had kissed her, in front her doorpost after a late dinner at Narcissa’s home, whispering the words ‘if you look at me like that every time I leave, I soon won’t be able to leave at all’, that she had understood.

The first night they had shared together Hermione had woken up with a scream of fear. And it had cost Narcissa a few minutes to reassure that it was a dream and that she was safe, here, that it was 2002, the war was over. And when Hermione had realized where she was and with whom she had tried to hide her shame and had apologized multiple times, until Narcissa had stroked her hand along the woman’s jaw and had whispered that she didn’t mind. That she understood. That she was there for her. And her touch had calmed Hermione, which left Narcissa in awe even after Hermione had fallen asleep again. How she, coldest witch of her age, could represent safety for the young woman who had so many reasons not to trust her, with just her mere hands and voice.

Now, so many nights later, Narcissa’s hand slowly moved along Hermione’s stomach. Going down with one smooth stroke until she cupped her. Hermione whimpered and opened her legs a little so that Narcissa could slip her fingers along. She started to rub gentle circles. It was not coupling. Not like the hours they often spend with each other, not like the rough neediness or the utter slow and soft caresses and kisses that they shared, this was just the bringing relief. Stress relief that Hermione could not get over her heart to give herself. Forgiveness that she never learned to grant herself.

Hermione’s body tensed even more than it already was. Narcissa knew this was a better kind of tensing, as it would follow by relaxation, it would follow by a falling that made all the difference. Even this was a result of war, of human history, that they knew the difference between falling and falling. It mattered which path was chosen. It mattered how you died. Many deaths within a lifetime.

_Le petite mort_.

Hermione’s began to shake along with the rhythm of Narcissa’s fingers. Her back and neck arched. Eyes fiercely closed. Her breath coming in short gasps and moans, the sound in between being wounded and feeling pleasure. Narcissa thought she was beautiful, even when in agony. She sped up the rhythm and Hermione’s noises became louder. Until Hermione moved her hips furiously, her hands clawing the sheets and her sounds forming raw cries. And then she broke down. Her body convulsing while tears leaked down her cheeks. And the convulsing of her body transformed into the shocking of shoulders, and the gasps for air became short stuttered words. Sentences. Apologies.

‘I…I’m… I’m s-s-so sorry. I’m- I’m sorry I c-couldn’t. I..I couldn’t s-save them,’ tears streamed down Hermiones cheeks. ‘I am so sorry. I couldn’t. I-I can’t, I’m…’

‘Shhh,’ Narcissa whispered in her ear. ‘Shhh, it’s alright. I know you can’t. It’s okay.’

Hermione turned towards her, crawling into her arms, tears slick against her collarbone. Narcissa held her close to her. Kissing the top of Hermione’s head, her temples, while also whispering caring sounds an sentences, showing her that Hermione was

And after a while the body of the young woman still shook gently, but slowly started to relax because of Narcissa’s hand running through Hermione’s dark tresses, the other one along Hermione’s arm, where she could feel the scars. Narcissa didn’t flinch anymore like she had the first time she had seen them. Someone she had loved dearly when she had been young had done this, had enjoyed the inflict of hurt on the person she loved with all she had now. She mourned this every day. The loss of her sister, long before she died, to the soul crushing regime of Voldemort and the wounds Bellatrix had carved into the skin of the world. All the scars she had left behind, the crass letters in her lovers arm, the nightmares Hermione would have over and over again. She grieved every day for Hermione and the hurt the woman had to take in. War didn’t end the moment the government declared peace. It continued in the minds of those who couldn’t forgive themselves and others for what happened. Narcissa knew all too well, she was one of them.

But as Hermione had fallen asleep in her arms again. She slowly could feel the peace settling into her body. This wouldn’t be the last night like this. Narcissa had no illusions about the darkness they still had to go through. But she would be there. In body, in mind, in heart.

They would adapt. Narcissa always did. And eventually, they would manage to feel less guilt about feeling happiness.

 


End file.
